


Sunday Light

by LastLeaf



Series: What We Do [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, non reaped!Everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastLeaf/pseuds/LastLeaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day of Gale's toasting, Katniss is the personification of a storm cloud.  Can an unexpected encounter with the boy with the bread brighten her mood? Written for Round 8, Day 6 of Prompts in Panem: The Farewell Tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Light

I should have stayed home.

I've been repeating it like a mantra all morning. I said it just after dawn in the woods when a thorny blackberry bush snagged my shirt, leaving angry pink trails up my arm. I said it again when some late-season wildflowers – ones I'd been meaning to take home to my mother and Prim to dry and turn into medicine – had been destroyed by the year's first frost. Whenever I looked up at the colorless sky that's persistently threatened to open up and pelt me with rain, I said it then, too. It was even worse in the Hob, today being what it is. Some, who’d seen me with Gale over the years, offered me congratulations. They probably wondered what I was doing there with dirty hair and clothes, game bag slung over my shoulder, instead of at the Justice Building where he was, in his best trousers and the shirt he’d worn to his last two reapings. Most others, who knew better, just looked at me with eyes full of pity. I honestly don’t know which bothered me more.

It’s not like I’m losing anything today, I tell myself. Whatever it was that Gale and I were has been lost for some time. Still, I should have stayed home.

When I think back on everything that went wrong between us, my mind always seems to drift back to a little over three years ago, on Reaping Day when I was sixteen. That morning we sat in our place on the rock ledge facing the valley, feasting on berries and soft bakery bread and Prim’s goat cheese. Remembering the puzzling comments he made, I should have known deep down what he wanted, while I thought I’d made it perfectly clear what I _didn’t_ want.

It isn’t uncommon in District Twelve for young couples to get married soon after their final reaping. And though there was nothing romantic between us, it seemed that was exactly what Gale had in mind. It's what everyone else expected, too. The seamstress, like the mayor, loves strawberries, and one time when I was at her shop to trade she told me no less than three times how much it would cost to rent a white dress. Darius, who'd tug at my braid and joke about trading game for kisses, lamented that he'd have to stop teasing me once Gale made an honest woman out of me. Gale, too, started making these cryptic little remarks like, _Someday when we get our own place..._ or _Don't you think autumn's the best season to have a toasting?_ But what really set me off was the time he came across the tiny bow my father had made me when I was young and made some offhanded comment about one day teaching his son or daughter to hunt. Then he slipped and referred to the child as _ours_. It launched the worst argument we’d ever had.

I told him I was never going to have kids, and how could _he_ , knowing what kind of a world he'd be bringing them into? To face sickness, starvation, the reaping. When he spoke of escaping to the woods, I told him he was being naïve. We'd get caught, for starters. If it were just the two of us, it would be hard enough to pull off, but our families are too large, especially his. And how could we even think of leaving them? I'd never be able to live without Prim. Besides, I had better things to do than become another Hawthorne baby machine. As soon as those words left my mouth I knew it sounded like a dig at Hazelle. I suppose it sort of was.

In Gale's steely eyes I could see that familiar fire that usually ignited whenever he ranted and raved about the Capitol. Only this time it was directed toward me.

We screamed at each other until we grew hoarse, scaring off all the game within a mile radius. When we were done, Gale dumped half the contents of his bag at my feet and then stalked off toward home.

It would be months before we'd speak again.

With Gale working full-time in the mines, I made sure to go to the woods during the week when I knew he wouldn’t be there. Gale started teaching his brothers to hunt on his only day off. So on Sundays I stayed home with Prim. I mostly helped her tend to Lady. Milking. Making cheese. Fixing up the wooden house we built to shield her from the elements.

It’s what I'd be doing right now were it any other Sunday. But today I could go out freely. Rory was nice enough to drop by last night and let me know that Gale wouldn’t be hunting this morning in case I wanted to venture out there. Of course, that isn't the real reason he came over. Everyone knows he has a crush on Prim. Greasy Sae likes to joke that it's the worst kept secret in the district. I can't help but feel a little bad for him, though. In the last year or so my sister has developed a strong interest in boys, but she has a very specific type. And Rory, with his dark hair and gray Seam eyes, isn't it.

I hesitate when I reach the back door of the bakery. I could always count on the baker to give me a few rolls for one of my squirrels, provided his wife wasn’t around, but he’s been dead over a year. He lived just long enough to watch all three of his sons age out of the reaping before dropping dead from a brain aneurism a month later. I've traded with his oldest son a few times since. He's about as talkative as his father was, though not nearly as friendly. He doesn't live there anymore. I hear he got married a few weeks ago. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

There's no yelling, the tell-tale sign that the baker's widow is around, so I knock. When the door opens, I recognize the man who answers. The middle Mellark son. “Squirrels, right?” he asks. I nod.

He starts to head back inside. When I make no move to follow, he adds, “I’m supposed to be watching a pot. Just come in. We can haggle from there.” I'm still frozen in my spot as he regards me carefully. “If it's my mother you don't want to see, don't worry about it. She's at the Cartwrights' playing cards. Does it every Sunday, so this would be a good day to come trade, for future reference.”

“I don't usually come out on Sundays,” I say. By next week it will be business as usual for Gale. Sure, he'll be living in his new house. With his new wife. He'll still need to eat, though. And I still plan to avoid him.

“Any other day's good too,” he tells me. “Even when she's home she doesn't come downstairs much anymore.” He peers back inside. “Look, if I don't get back in there I might end up burning the place down.” This time when he turns around, I do follow.

I’ve never actually been inside before. I could never afford to buy anything, and all my trading has occurred outside the back door. When I cross the threshold I’m immediately assaulted by warm, sugary bakery air. The scent hangs heavy around us, and I can’t imagine how anyone can live here and not be near-mad with hunger all the time.

The middle Mellark – I can’t remember his name – heads to a stovetop against the rear wall of the kitchen and starts halfheartedly stirring something that’s simmering in a giant metal pot. That’s when I see him. The only Mellark whose name I’ve bothered to learn. Peeta doesn’t see me. He’s standing at the counter in the center of the room only a few feet away, his eyes fixed on the cake he’s decorating. And now I _know_ I should have stayed home. Because even though people from the Seam can rarely, if ever, afford cake, or bread for that matter, I can’t shake the idea that it’s for Gale. It seems I can’t escape this day no matter where I go.

The cake in question is small, about the size of an acorn squash, and frosted in a shade of green that reminds me of spring leaves. I watch as Peeta pipes brightly-colored flowers around the perimeter, similar to the wildflowers that grow along the edge of the Meadow. Orange tiger lilies and blue chicory blossoms and sunny yellow dandelions. For just a moment he looks up and his eyes latch onto mine. I wonder if the dandelions spark the same memory for him. Is that why he's looking at me? Because he expects me to acknowledge it? I know I should say something, but I’m not sure what. I had no intention of coming here to talk about anything not relating to squirrels. Before I can even try to work up the nerve, I’m aware of a voice in the distance. It must be directed toward me, because Peeta’s gaze goes back to the cake in front of him. His brother watches me expectantly.

“What?” I ask.

“I said I’ve never eaten squirrel before,” the-Mellark-who-isn’t-Peeta says. “They any good?”

I don’t know how to answer. I’ve never had the luxury of choosing my meals based on how they taste. During the leanest winters Greasy Sae makes a vile stew using the meat from caught mice, chopped up pine bark, and maybe some pig entrails taken from the back of the butcher shop, and I’ll devour a bowlful of the stuff. I’ll eat just about anything that won’t kill me. But I am trying to sell these. “They’re good,” I tell him, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

He raises an eyebrow and then gives me a look as if studying me. “It’s funny, you coming in today,” he says. “We were just talking about you, weren't we, Peeta?” Peeta doesn't acknowledge his brother's question, but for some reason his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink. His brother continues, nodding toward the cake. “When the order came in we thought you were the bride.”

So it _is_ for Gale. Suddenly the promise of bakery bread is a lot less appealing than it was a moment ago. “Well, you thought wrong.” It’s only after I say it that I realize my teeth are clenched.

“I recognized the name,” he goes on. He runs his spoon limply through the pale yellow custard bubbling in the pot and then turns his back to it so he’s facing me. “Gale Hawthorne. We were in the same year in school. Saw you and him together a lot. And then it was the mayor’s daughter who came in to place the order. Peeta here says you were friends or something, so we both kind of figured…”

I feel my face grow warmer, and I know it’s not from the heat of the ovens. The idea of them discussing me unsettles me even more than the gossip at the Hob. Frankly, I’m surprised the baker’s youngest sons even know who I am. All I know is that I’m done talking about Gale and weddings and cakes. If the bakery floor could somehow open up and swallow me whole, I think I’d welcome it right about now.

“Rye,” Peeta speaks for the first time since I arrived, and points toward the bubbling pot. “Watch what you're doing.” His face is flushed. He looks agitated. I wonder if he’s not used to outsiders standing in his kitchen while he’s trying to work. I guess I would be bothered by some stranger breaking my concentration, too.

Rye, I guess his name is, rolls his eyes and then makes a big show of vigorously stirring the custard, causing some of it to slosh over the side and sizzle against the flat surface of the stove. I clear my throat to get his attention. “Hey, Peeta,” he shouts over his shoulder. “You’re the one who eats the squirrels. What are they worth? A couple rolls? The day-olds?”

I glance over at Peeta, who seems intent on looking anywhere but at me. “Dad usually gave three or four, depending on the quality of the trade,” he says. “So...four. From today.”

Rye lets go of the spoon in his hand, causing it to land with a graceless thud. “Sounds like you can probably handle it from here then,” he says. “I'm going out.” He brushes past me and heads straight for the back door.

“I thought you were watching the pot,” I call out to him. Isn't that why he made me come inside in the first place?

He looks at me and shrugs. Then, to Peeta, says, “If the thing starts smoking or anything, take it off the stove, okay?” As he leaves he mouths something to his brother that looks like _you’re welcome_ , even though it doesn’t make sense. Why would Peeta be thanking him? For sticking him with extra work? Anyway, Peeta doesn't look very thankful.

And then it's just the two of us.

I’ve never been alone with him before. I've hardly even seen him when he wasn’t with his family or several of his blond-haired blue eyed friends, surrounding him like a fence. One I could never slip under. It never felt right going up to him then. That would have been too...humiliating, I guess. I’m not even sure whose embarrassment I was sparing. Mine? His? I know I should say something, but the words stick in my mouth like wild honey.

“Give me just a second,” Peeta says, “and then we can, you know...the squirrels.” He goes to the stove to add spots of butter and a spoonful of some kind of dark liquid into the mixture. He whisks out the lumps, and then transfers it into a bowl. It's now that I can smell the final ingredient. Vanilla. I've only ever smelled vanilla before. Never tasted it. I can't help but stare longingly while he lightly dusts it with sugar.

I think he catches me staring, because he grabs a clean spoon and extends it toward me. “Here. You can taste some if you like,” he says softly. “It's okay. My brothers and I do it all the time. How else are we going to know if what we're selling is any good?”

I shake my head, mortified. No, that won't do at all. I'm supposed to be paying him back, not taking anything else.

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Peeta sets the spoon aside and then covers the bowl before putting it into the icebox. When he's done he stands awkwardly, a little fidgety, flexing his fingers as if he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Before I have a chance to say anything, the front bell pings. Peeta gives me a quick apologetic smile and tells me he'll be right back before crossing into the front room. To my surprise he returns just a moment later, along with Madge Undersee. This can't possibly be normal bakery protocol, bringing paying customers all the way back to the kitchen.

She offers me a weak smile when she sees me and I make an effort to return it. Her nose is red, as are her eyes, the fragile skin around them puffy, like she’s just been crying or sneezing.

“How are you?” Peeta asks her, in a way that doesn’t strike me as small-talk.

“Resigned to spinsterhood, I think,” she answers dryly, and with more familiarity than I expected. Almost as if they're friends. But then, we’ve been out of school for over a year. For all I know, they could be.

Peeta says something in response that I don't catch, because something Rye had said earlier flits back into my mind. Madge ordered the cake. Madge, who has no connection whatsoever to Gale and Leevy's wedding. Except maybe the bride. Leevy works for the Undersees, planting flowers and trimming their lawn and hedges. I suppose they could be friends, too. That's one of the nice things about Madge. She was never overly concerned about class boundaries. But Gale is, despite acknowledging that it's to the Capitol's benefit to keep class lines divided. I wonder how he feels about the mayor's daughter buying his wedding cake. Something about this gnaws away at me. He knew Madge and I were friendly, yet he couldn't be bothered to be civil to her. But now that she and _Leevy_ are friends, suddenly he's not too proud to accept charity. “Gale's really okay with this?” I ask. “The cake?”

“He doesn't know,” Madge admits. “In fact, Leevy kept trying to tell me no, but I insisted. She said, in that case, I'm under strict instructions to make sure his sister sees it first. He can't say no to Posy.”

“You and Leevy must be good friends,” I say stiffly.

“She's a hard person to hate. Try as one might.” Then she flushes, as if she hadn't meant to say that last part out loud. It's a funny thing for her to say, at any rate. But I can't help but feel the same.

Peeta, meanwhile, has boxed up the cake and hands it to Madge. “Well, it was a very nice thing to do. You'll have to tell me how everyone liked it the next time I see you.”

“Oh, no,” Madge says. “I'm not staying. The daughter of the bride’s employer would stick out like a sore thumb. But you’ll be there, right, Katniss?”

The words fly out of my mouth before I can consider them. “No. Why would I be?” Even _I’m_ taken aback by how cold I sound.

To Madge's credit, she appears unfazed. If anything, she looks sympathetic. I can't read Peeta's expression. He must think I'm awful.

Madge doesn't stay much longer after that. With her gone, I'm left with only Peeta and my bag of squirrels. I should say something, I tell myself again. I may never get another chance. “I didn't know you knew Madge.”

“I don't, really,” he says. “I never talked to her much before a few days ago. Wish I had. Turns out we have something in common.”

“Oh.” It's the only word that comes to me readily.

“So you're really not going to your friend's toasting, huh?” he asks. “Wouldn't you want him to come to yours?”

“I'm never having one,” I say, a little startled by his questions.

And there it is again. That silence. For a moment it becomes unbearably awkward until Peeta finally speaks. “So...I guess we --”

“Thank you,” I blurt out.

He blinks at me a couple times, his brow creased in confusion. He probably thinks I’ve gone mad. Those words would have made a lot more sense seven years ago.

“The bread,” I clarify, feeling stupid all of a sudden. “From…before. You probably don’t even remember…”

His eyes soften. “I remember.”

I try to calculate exactly how many squirrels I should offer him. His father had given Gale an entire loaf for just one squirrel once, but that was Reaping Day, and it was plain white bread. The loaves Peeta gave me were heartier, with dried fruit and nuts baked into them. I might have to give him everything in my bag. And even that wouldn’t be enough.

“I have six right now, but I could bring you more,” I say. “Probably not for another week, though.”

That same look of confusion from before, the one that makes that space between his eyes crinkle, comes back.

I hold up my bag to him.

“Katniss,” he says gently, “I’m not going to accept one of your squirrels without paying for it. You really don't have to give me anything.”

His refusal shouldn’t bother me. I was counting on those squirrels to trade. The rolls, especially, would have been nice. Bread has been scarce at our house lately, since the very last of my tesserae grain ran out a little over three months ago. When Prim’s fifteenth birthday arrived, I wouldn’t let her sign up for more. It isn’t worth it. I may be safe from the Games forever, but Prim has three years left. Even so, this overwhelming need to pay him back is making me slightly defensive. “What? Suddenly you're too good for squirrel?”

“That’s not it,” he says with far too much patience for someone I just snapped at. “Your squirrels are just as good as anything I could get from the butcher. I gave you damaged merchandise. It’s not a fair trade. Maybe…maybe if you found one that’s missing a couple limbs or something…” He trails off with a light chuckle.

I realize he's only kidding, but he did a lot more than give me _damaged merchandise_. Surely he knows that if he remembers the incident at all. If he remembers the sight of me emaciated and half-dead in the rain. Well, if he's going to make light of it, then he deserves to have me play along. “I could cut the arms and legs off some of these if you want,” I offer.

Peeta blanches at this, as if he expects me to do it right now on the same surface he just used to frost Gale and Leevy’s cake.

“I’ve got a knife with me. I could do it outside,” I add.

The offer makes him grimace. “Katniss...no.”

“I owe you _something._ What do you want then?”

“You really won’t let this go? Even if I tell you that I’ve never expected anything from you?”

“I owe you,” I say again, more firmly this time.

He sighs. “Well, I won’t be taking your squirrels. They’re too good to just be given away, but…seeing as my brother's taken off, I can always use some help here. That is, if you don't mind spending the day with me. If you hate it, you’ll never have to see me again. I promise. If you ever come by the bakery to trade while I’m here, I’ll dive behind the kneading table so you won’t have to look at me. How’s that?”

There's something about the teasing smile he gives me that causes that frostiness between us to thaw just a little bit. I feel one corner of my mouth turn slightly upward in spite of myself. “And that’s really all you want?” I ask. “That would make us even?”

His grin brightens. “That would make us even.”

I can’t even begin to tell him how wrong he is. How a few bakery chores won’t possibly compare to what he did for me. But he does seem to need the help. Maybe I won't be able to pay him back all at once. It might have to be a gradual process. “Okay,” I tell him.

He places my game bag in the icebox on a shelf containing a few pieces of wrapped butcher meat, and moves toward a line of bowls covered with cloth that sit against the wall on a counter across the room. One by one, he places them on the kneading table in the center of the kitchen. I stand across from him as he uncovers them, revealing risen dough that jut out of their bowls like swollen stomachs. Peeta explains to me that in order for the bread to have an even texture it needs to be punched down, otherwise it might end up with holes in it or something.

“Punch it?” I ask. This is so different than making the flat loaves from tessarae grain at home. I always assumed that bakery bread is better because it uses finer ingredients. Maybe the real problem is that our bread doesn't suffer enough in the making of it.

Peeta makes a fist and lowers it into the bowl. “See? Like that,” he says. He has me wash my hands while he flours the other side of the counter.

I imitate Peeta's demonstration, and when he's satisfied with what I've done, he takes the dough out of its bowl and kneads it on the floured surface while I work on a second. As my knuckles connect with the soft mixture, leaving fist-shaped craters behind, I can feel the tension start to unfurl itself from its tightly coiled state inside of me. I imagine it's that cake under my fist instead. I hit harder.

After our fight, Gale and I developed a routine that allowed us to provide for each other's families – because we were always going to be linked; that was never going to go away – while still avoiding the other. It worked for awhile. I even reasoned that it was for the best. Gale and I wanted different things and seeing each other after everything that had transpired between us would be too painful.

And then Hazelle became ill.

My mother did all she could, but the prognosis seemed grim. More than once she suggested I patch things up with Gale. _Before it's too late_ , was her unspoken warning.

I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t face him. I figured I was the last person he'd want to see. Gale was taking longer shifts at the mine anyway.

So, every day I’d separate a larger-than-normal portion of what I brought back from the woods to send with Prim to take to the Hawthornes, but I never went myself. It was Prim who told me that our neighbor Leevy was spending a lot of time there. Leevy went over every evening, cooking their dinner and tending to the laundry that Hazelle was too weak to do herself. She’d brush Posy’s hair and tell her stories before bed. And every night, Gale would walk her home, right up to the door. It wasn't hard to miss; she only lives two houses away.

Then, though no one had expected her to, Hazelle recovered. That only made facing Gale more difficult, having not been there for him in his time of need. So I continued to stay away.

I remember how relieved I was to see him show up at my door one Sunday months later. I thought it meant that he wasn't angry anymore, that we could get back what we'd had. But that wasn't why he had come over. It was to tell me that he was getting married, before I heard it from someone else. I numbly congratulated him before he made a hasty exit.

Everyone assumes that I wish I were in Leevy's place, but that isn't it. The truth is, I have no interest in marrying Gale. I just wish everything could go back to the way it used to be, when we were hunting partners and best friends before all the pressures of marriage and babies ruined us.

I feel a pair of warm hands stilling mine. “I think that's good for now,” Peeta says. I look down at what I've done and see that I've gotten carried away. Bits of dough cling all the way from my fingers to my forearms.

“Did I ruin it?” I ask, humiliated to have failed at the one task he gave me.

Peeta looks down at it thoughtfully. “Not ruined, exactly. It's just that the rougher you handle it the more difficult it is to shape afterward.”

Great. I'm supposed to be helping him, and all I'm doing is making his job tougher for him. I'm about to suggest that he give me something else to do. Sweep the floors. Wash dishes. Anything that doesn't involve what will go directly into the hands of actual paying customers. I don't even notice right away that Peeta has moved away from me and to the storage closet.

“C'mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.” He's retrieved a big burlap sack that must be half his height and filled with something I can't identify. A length of rope ties it closed. I watch him as he effortlessly hefts the bag over his shoulder and heads toward the back door leading outside. He looks to me and smiles reassuringly. “Come on.”

I follow Peeta past the pig pen to the apple tree where he ties the bag to a sturdy, low-hanging branch. “What is this?” I ask.

He knocks at the bag with his fist so it sways gently in the crisp autumn air. “ _This_ ,” he says, “is what my brothers and I used to keep from taking out our aggression on the product. Or each other. Go ahead.”

What does he want me to do – hit it? Out here? Where people could see me? I may be angry, but not enough to publicly humiliate myself. “Peeta, this is _stupid_.”

He flinches, just a little, at the word. It happens so briefly that had I been mid-blink I may not have caught it at all. And then his face instantly reverts back to its normal easy expression. “Come on,” he says. “I'll show you.” He takes a step closer. “You see, you want to be an arm's length away from it.” He stands just close enough so that he can reach out and touch the bag. He curls his right hand into a fist and strikes with enough power to create a loud _thwack_. “See?” he says. “Nothing to it. Now you try.”

I move forward, just past Peeta, and imitate his stance. I let my fingers compact into a tight little ball and tentatively hit. Kind of pathetic, but when I look back at Peeta, he's positively beaming at me.

“So?” he asks me. “How was that?”

Good, if I'm being honest. Better than I expected. I tell him so just before I hit it again. And again. I keep going, feeling the anger I'd been carrying with me today rise like steam. It dislodges itself from the pit of my stomach, past my heart, up my throat, and escaping out of the top of my head, dissipating into the air.

When we head back inside, Peeta and I knead and shape bread dough in companionable silence. With rapt attention, I watch him skillfully shape one loaf to resemble a bundle of wheat tied with a braided rope. It's very popular during harvest time, he tells me. He lets me brush the surface with egg whites and milk before it goes into the oven.

As time passes, Peeta gets more chatty. He tells me a story about the time he kicked a soccer ball onto the grocer's roof and got stuck up there trying to get it down that has me laughing until my sides ache. He listens with hushed awe as I recount the tale of getting treed by a brown bear last year.

It's late afternoon when Peeta closes the bakery. Neither his brother nor his mother have come home yet. “I'm really glad you came by today,” he says with a shy smile.

Above us, some of the clouds have parted and for the first time all day I can see buttery rays of sunlight. I don’t know why, but I feel lighter than I have in months. Like I could float all the way home, my feet hovering an inch above the cobblestone roads that lead back to the Seam. “Me too.”


End file.
